"I say, Dick, are you in?"
It was a cautious voice making this inquiry after a gentle knock at the door of the room where our hero and Paul Drew lived when they were not playing football, drilling with the other cadets, or reciting their lessons.
"Who is it?" whispered Dick to his chum.
"Blessed if I know. Sounds like Beeby, and again it might be Teddy. Going to let him in?"
"Sure. No one's around this early and it's safe. Unbolt the door. I've done enough boning to-night."
It was shortly after Dick had received the letter from his father, in which the disquieting news was given, and the two cadets were preparing their lessons for the morrow.
But as this was ever-wearying work, to be disposed of as quickly as possible in case any pleasure was available, the two friends welcomed the disturbing knock.
"Come on in," invited our hero as his chum opened the portal. "What's up, anyhow."
"Something doing," replied Innis Beeby cheerfully as he slid inside the room, and carefully closed the door. "Are you fellows ready for a little fun?"
"It depends on what kind," answered Dick. "Are you going to run one of the six-pounders up on the chapel steps, or turn the flag upside down?"
"Neither. But did you know that Porter and Weston were giving a little spread to-night?"
"A spread? No! And those fellows only freshmen of the freshest kind," answered Paul. "Say, we ought to take 'em down a peg."
"Exactly what I think," agreed Beeby. "I came over to see if you didn't want to join in the fun. We're going to invade their spread, take Porter and Weston captive, and carry them into town."
"Then what?" inquired Paul eagerly. He was always ready for fun.
"We'll make them do 'sentry-go' in front of the town jail. Have them march up and down with wooden guns on their shoulders. Maybe they won't feel sick!"
"But will they do it?" asked Paul.
"They'll have to if we make a freshman matter of it. Otherwise they'll go to Coventry for the rest of the term. Oh, they'll do it all right. How about it, Dick?"
Now our hero had shown a curious lack of interest in the matter of hazing Porter and Weston, from the time their names were mentioned. He seemed to cool down all at once, though he had always done his share heretofore in making the first year men feel their inferior positions.
"Well?" asked Innis Beeby, after a pause, as he glanced at the young millionaire.
"Oh, what's the use?" inquired Dick. "Can't we let 'em alone? It might make trouble in the football team if we put them through the third degree too strong."
"Bosh!" cried Innis. "They need it. Besides, if any fellows take offense at a little hazing they're not fit to play on the football team. Eh, Paul?"
"Sure not."
But Dick was thinking what effect his participation in the affair would have, especially when he still wanted to get some information from Porter, and depended on keeping in with that worthy in order to secure it.
"Come along, Dick," urged Innis.
"Oh, I don't know," and the young millionaire paused before a case full of books—a case seldom opened. "I ought to do some boning, and——"
"What!" cried Beeby aghast. "Don't speak of such a thing again. You nearly gave me heart disease. Come along and have some fun. We don't often have a chance at it, but there is a faculty pow-wow to-night, and the coast is unusually clear. That's why Porter had his spread I guess. We'll go over, make a rough house, and take him and his friend out for an airing. Then we'll all feel better. Come on, Dick."
There was no help for it, and, somewhat against his will, our hero made ready to accompany his chums. He did not like to go, as he feared to get on bad terms with Porter.
It was a very much surprised party of surreptitious midnight feasters on which our hero and his chums burst half an hour later. The spread was being held in the apartments of Porter, for he had hired a sitting room as well as a dormitory chamber. Both were well filled with most of the members of the "sporting" set.
"What does this mean?" demanded Porter indignantly, as the upper classmen made their appearance. "I think I did not invite you to my little affair."
"No, we didn't wait for a bid, Porter, though it was mighty careless of you to overlook us," retorted Beeby. "But we came, anyhow. Now I guess you can come with us, Porter and Weston. We're going to initiate you into the mysteries of the gun club."
There were significant glances from the other cadets for they knew what this meant. Many of them had been through it on previous occasions.
"We're not coming!" exclaimed Porter aggressively.
"No, and you haven't any right to interrupt us in this manner," declared his crony with dignity. "Leave here at once."
"With you, dear friend, and not otherwise," put in Teddy Naylor. "Come on, it's part of the game."
But Porter and Weston could not see it that way. They protested, and made a show of fighting. They appealed to the other cadets, but the latter said they had better comply with the demands of the upper classmen.
Even then the two cronies remained ugly, and made a show of resistance, until Beeby and the others, tired of the delay, made a sudden rush, tied the captives with ropes that had been brought for the purpose, and marched them quietly from the building.
"Here, you let go of that rope, Hamilton!" cried Porter, as he saw Dick holding one end of the cords that bound the hands of the two captives together.
"Can't do it—nohow," was the grim answer, and yet Dick wished that he might, for he was afraid that this would prove an insurmountable barrier to future talks with the son of the man who was seeking to ruin Mr. Hamilton.
"Then I'll get even with you," threatened Porter. "I'll make you fellows sorry for this night's work, you see if I don't."
"Don't mind him—he's talking like a cannon-swab," said Beeby with a chuckle.
In a little while the two captives had been placed in front of the town jail, with instructions to march up and down before it, bearing on their shoulders grotesque wooden guns made for the hazing purpose.
"And if you desert inside of an hour, you know what it means," threatened Jim Watkins. "You'll belong to the Down and Out Club after that. So keep on the job."
Porter and Weston knew better than to disobey, for their chums, who had been present at the spread, had whispered to them of the dire penalties that would follow a disregard of the hazing instructions of the upper classmen. So the two cronies marched gravely up and down the dark street, while occasional pedestrians paused to gaze, chuckle silently as they realized what was in progress.
"I'm not going to stand it!" indignantly declared Porter after a half hour of the ordeal.
"We'd better," counseled Weston. "I don't want to stay at Kentfield for a month with not a soul to speak to but you. We've got to do it."
"All right. But I'll get even with Hamilton for this. I think he started it. I'll get square with him."
"Same here," and Weston shifted his gun to the other shoulder, and marched forward wearily.
The night wore on, and in the shadows of several buildings the upper classmen who had originated the joke on the two freshmen, looked on and chuckled in mirth. Occasionally they called out a remark to the sentries. More people passed, and some paused to laugh, to the anger of Porter and Weston. Policemen walked by, but they were familiar with that form of hazing and did not make any complaint of the odd sight. Some of the prisoners in the jail peered out from their barred windows and jeered. All this was bitterness to the two.
After a time Beeby and his chums wearied of the joke, and on the invitation of George Hall went to a nearby soda fountain for some chocolate.
"They'll skip out as soon as we're gone," declared Ray Dutton.
"No, I think they'll stick," declared Innis. "Anyhow, Dick, you go back and take a look. We'll keep your chocolate for you."
Our hero did not relish the task, but did not want to object. Accordingly, he walked back to the corner where he could look down the street and catch a glimpse of the two cadet jail-sentries. They were still on their posts.
Dick turned back to join his chums, and, as did so he almost collided with a man coming around the corner in an opposite direction.
"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed the cadet. "I didn't see you."
"Very evidently," was the rasping reply. "That's the trouble with you young men, you never look where you're going. Ah! I see, another one of the soldiers—and if it isn't the same one who nearly ran me down the other night in an automobile."
Dick recognized the aged Mr. Duncaster.
"I—I'm afraid it is," our hero faltered. "I—I didn't mean to, I'm sure. I didn't hurt you this time."
"No, but it's not your fault that you didn't. You came around that corner under a full head of steam. Have you run down any more persons in your auto?" Enos Duncaster asked sarcastically.
"No, and that time it wasn't my fault."
"Hum—let's see—your name is Hamilton—son of Mortimer Hamilton—I know him—a hard man in a bargain. Well, I'll let you off this time. Who are those two young men marching up and down over there—chums of yours?"
"Yes—we—we're hazing them," faltered Dick.
"Ha! Hazing! A senseless and foolish proceeding! But just what I would expect of you soldier lads—heartless and cruel. Well, let me pass, I've wasted enough time on you."
Mr. Duncaster's voice was grim and harsh. He brushed by Dick roughly and passed on down the street, muttering to himself about the foolishness of youths in general, and in particular regarding those boys who attended military schools.
Dick, having assured himself that the hazed ones were still patrolling their post, returned to his chums and helped get away with some chocolate soda.
There was a telegram awaiting our hero when he reached his room later that night, Porter and Weston having been released from their hazing duties.
"Hum, I guess that's from dad," mused Dick. "I wonder what the new developments are?"
Rapidly he scanned the few words. They were these:
"Dear Dick: Enos Duncaster is the name of the man who holds a lot of trolley stock. See if you can locate him for me. I understand he lives somewhere in the vicinity of your academy. Trouble is thickening. I need help."
"Dear Dick: Enos Duncaster is the name of the man who holds a lot of trolley stock. See if you can locate him for me. I understand he lives somewhere in the vicinity of your academy. Trouble is thickening. I need help."
"Whew!" whistled Dick. "Enos Duncaster! He's the man who holds the stock, and whom both sides are after. And I'm in his bad books if ever a fellow was! Whew! I can see the finish of this without any spectacles!"
Cavalry evolutions were ordered for the next day, followed by a field drill, and a service march of several miles, so that there was no chance for football practice.
"And we need all we can get, too," remarked Dick to Paul.
"Let's suggest to Colonel Masterly that he give up lessons and drill while the gridiron season is on," suggested Paul with a smile.
"Yes, I can see him doing it," cried the young millionaire. "Which horse are you going to ride, Paul?"
"The little black—I'm fond of him, though he is a bit vicious."
The boys were on their way to the cavalry barracks, and in their wake, and ahead of them, were other cadets hastening to secure their mounts, for the bugle was impatiently calling.
"Do you think Spitfire is safe?" asked Dick, naming the steed Paul had said he would use. "Why don't you take the little gray I used to ride? He's a good steady mount, though a bit slow."
"That's the trouble," was the answer, as Dick's roommate tightened the belt of his sabre. "I want to keep up with the rest of the bunch. No, I'll take Spitfire. I reckon you'll ride Rex; eh?"
"Sure," for Dick had brought his own fine horse to Kentfield with him, together with his bulldog, and Grit was now ambling along behind the two chums, occasionally uttering a low bark of satisfaction, for the dog loved to go along on the practice "hikes."
"Well, be careful," cautioned the wealthy youth, as Paul went in to saddle up.
"All right," laughed his chum, but there was a serious look on the face of our hero, and he resolved to keep near his chum that day.
Artillery practice followed the cavalry drill, and the cadets, sitting as straight as ramrods on the caissons while the horses galloped around at full speed, leaped off the moment the sudden halt was made, unlimbered, fired rapid shots and, limbering up again, went off at a mad gallop to repeat the operation.
"Forward march!" signalled the bugler when arrangements had been made for the "hike," and the eager horses, astride of which were the no less eager cadets, started off.
It was a pleasant day, though a trifle cool, and the service overcoats, with their flashily yellow linings, showing gaily in the sun when they flapped back, felt very comfortable.
At first the march was in orderly array, while Major Webster, and some of the other military instructors, passed here and there among the new cadets, telling them the proper way to manage their horses. Dick and his chums, however, having passed several terms at the academy, needed no hints.
"Don't hold your snaffle reins that way, Mr. Porter," said the major to the new lad as he rode up beside him. "You can't control your horse in an emergency. Let me show you," which he did, also correcting a fault he noticed in the way Weston sat on his steed.
"Humph! I guess I know something about horses," complained Porter, when the instructors had passed on. "I straddled one before I came here. I had a German riding master, and what he didn't know about horses wasn't worth putting on ice. I'll ride as I please."
As he spoke, he put spurs to his horse, digging them in viciously, and as the startled animal leaped forward, the cruel lad wrenched the poor brute's mouth open with the strong curb bit. There was a momentary confusion among the horses immediately surrounding Porter, and several of the older cadets called sharply to him to "stop his funny work."
"Oh, you fellows make me tired!" Porter grumbled. "Why don't you do some fast riding."
"You'll get all the fast riding you want if you stay long enough," spoke Paul sharply.
A little later the order was given to ride at will, and Major Webster, galloping back to Dick, said:
"Captain Hamilton, you and Lieutenant Drew take several of the new cadets and ride around by the long lake road. Give them some points. Take about ten—Mr. Porter and Mr. Weston, fall in with Captain Hamilton's squad."
"Hum! I guess Captain Hamilton thinks he knows it all," sneered Weston.
"Not a bit of it," answered Dick good naturedly. "But orders are orders you'll find. Come ahead, and I'll show you a fine bit of road, some magnificent scenery, and we'll have a good gallop. Look out there, Paul, I don't like the way Spitfire is acting!" The young millionaire called this suddenly as he saw his chum's steed waltzing up to another animal, with ears laid back as though to bite, and so cause trouble.
"I can manage him," answered Paul confidently, as he put the restless steed about in a rapid circle.
Dick's little squad, himself and Paul the only really military experienced riders in it, set off along a cross road that would bring them to the shore path of Lake Wagatook. There, as the young captain had said, was a fine road with scenery that one would have to travel many miles to equal.
"Now for some fast riding!" called Dick, when they came to a long open stretch. "You can go as far as you like, Porter."
"Good! Then here I go!"
Viciously he again spurred his horse, and his example was followed by his crony. The two animals sprang away together, but Porter's stepped on a round stone, stumbled, and almost fell. The boastful lad proved that he did know something about animals, for he pulled up the beast's head sharply, and got him in hand again. Not before, however, the frightened steed had collided with some force into Spitfire.
Paul's horse lashed out instantly with its hind hoofs, and then, with a shake of the head bolted. The cadet attempted to pull him in, but, a moment later, uttered a startled cry.
"My curb rein is broken!"
It flashed through Dick's head in an instant what that meant. Naturally ugly, Spitfire, now unusually frightened, was practically beyond control. Paul was doing his best but was rapidly being carried down the broad highway, with Porter and Weston galloping after him, their own steeds none too well in hand.
"I've got to stop him!" exclaimed Dick. "I've got to catch Spitfire and stop him, or Paul may be hurt! That brute isn't fit to ride. Come, Rex!"
Rex needed no spur. Off he started like a racer, and Dick, looking back, flung over his shoulder at the other cadets:
"Come on, fellows, keep up as well as you can!"
Rex soon fell into his stride, and fairly skimmed along the smooth road. But Paul was quite a distance ahead, and Spitfire was running hard. Dick could see his chum sitting easily in the saddle, now and then leaning forward trying to grasp the broken and flapping end of the curb rein.
"Don't do it! Wait! I'll catch you!" shouted Dick, but it is doubtful if Paul heard him.
"Come on, Rex old man, we must do better than this. We can beat Spitfire," spoke Dick gently, patting his horse on the neck. Rex understood and let out a few more "kinks" of his speed.
The young millionaire soon reached and passed Porter and Weston, whose steeds had soon tired of the speedy spurt. But not so with Spitfire. Dick knew he would have a race. On galloped Rex, and before him sped Spitfire.
"A little better, boy, a little better," urged Dick. And a little better Rex went.
Dick could now see that he was overhauling the uncontrolled steed, and he was glad of it, for he feared Paul might be flung off, in spite of the lad's skill in horsemanship.
"I'll have him in another minute," reflected Dick, when there suddenly loomed in sight a big touring car, and right at a point where the road narrowed. Spitfire was viciously shaking his head, now and then holding it low.
"Jove, he'll crash into that car!" cried Dick aloud. "Why don't they keep that infernal horn still? It's making him wilder," for the autoists were frantically tooting away.
"I've got to get in ahead of him, and ride him off to one side," thought our hero. "Rex, old boy, I hate to do it, but—just a touch."
Gently Dick pricked his pet animal with the spurs—just a touch, for voice was not quite incentive enough. Like a shot Rex sprang forward, and covered the ground so rapidly that in another brief instant the young millionaire was ahead of his friend, and between Spitfire and the now stationary auto. Then, with the skill of long practice, Dick urged Rex up to Spitfire, who was losing speed, and a moment later the frightened steed had been forced off the road, into the grassy side path, and headed toward a fence, which effectually stopped farther progress.
"Well ridden! Excellently well ridden!" cried the man at the wheel of the auto. Dick saluted, for there were several ladies in the car, and then turned to Paul.
"All right, old man," he asked anxiously.
"Yes, but I might not have been a little later. I should have looked to my reins. Thanks—for coming as you did," and Paul warmly grasped Dick's hand.
"You knew I'd come. Now let's see if we can mend that leather and ride back. Are you game?"
"Oh, sure. I fancy Spitfire has had all he wanted for to-day." In fact the animal was much subdued after his run. The auto passed on, not even the tooting of the horn causing Paul's steed to prance. Then he and Dick managed to patch up the curb leather, and rode back to meet the other cadets.
"Don't spur up so suddenly when other horses are too near you," advised the young captain to Porter, who seemed a bit ashamed of the trouble he had caused.
"I beg your pardon, old man—and yours, Captain," spoke the lad, who though impulsive, was not a bad fellow at heart.
"All right," answered Dick easily. "We'll take it a little more slowly now."
They finished the ride in about two hours, reaching the academy as the last of the other riding squads came in. Dick made no report of the little incident which, but for his promptness, might have had a fatal, or at least a serious, ending.
Rifle practice, and field telegraph work occupied the rest of the day, and there was a final drill and inspection in the late afternoon.
"A pretty strenuous day," remarked Paul to Dick, as they went to their room that evening.
"Yes, and there'll be another to-morrow."
"How so?"
"We must get in some good football practice, for I expect the two coaches soon, perhaps to-day."
"Then Martin and Spencer are both coming?"
"Yes, the good salary and the influence of the old grads, including dad, brought them around."
"I'm glad of it. Now Kentfield will do something."
Out on the gridiron were a score or more of the mole-skin clad warriors, doing all sorts of things to a harmless pigskin spheroid. It was booted and passed about.
"Line up! Line up!" called Teddy Naylor. "Get together fellows! Where are you scrubs? We're going to send all of you to the hospital. Come on, Dick, run through some signals."
Eleven panting youths faced eleven others, and the ball went sailing into the midst of the Varsity. George Hall caught it, and ran back with it, well protected by interference. But some of the scrub managed to get through, and downed him before he had gone far.
"Down!" panted George, as he tried to rise from underneath a mound of human forms.
"Down indeed, but too soon," remarked a strange voice, to one side of the scrimmaging lads. They all looked up. Two young men stood looking at the heap of humanity. They were strangers to all the cadets.
"May I ask—perhaps you don't know it, but only members of the academy are allowed out here," spoke Teddy Naylor a bit stiffly.
"Oh, but we were sent for," remarked one of the strangers. "We just came, and we were interested in seeing you play."
"You were sent for?" repeated the captain.
"Yes, that is——"
"Oh, isn't this Mr. Martin?" asked Dick, striding forward and holding out his hand.
"Yes," was the answer from the man with a small black moustache. "I'm Mr. Martin and this is Mr. Spencer," and he indicated his companion.
"Fellows, the coaches have come!" cried Dick. "Now to learn how to play football!"
Scores of expectant lads sat in the meeting room of the Kentfield Academy gymnasium. They faced two quiet gentlemen, who, from time to time, whispered to each other. Beside the two gentlemen were Teddy Naylor and Innis Beeby, who also, as the minutes passed, conferred in low voices.
"Hadn't we better start?" asked Innis, of the football captain.
"No, we'll wait a few minutes longer. Porter and Weston aren't here, and I want them to come."
"Those fellows will never train for the eleven."
"Yes they will. There is good material in both of them. Here they are now. I guess we've got enough. Will you start her off, or shall I?"
"Oh, you'd better, Teddy. I'll say something later if it's necessary. Better introduce 'em formally first, and let 'em do most of the talking," and the stout cadet looked at the two coaches.
"Fellows," began Teddy, arising and moving forward a bit nervously, "you all know why we are here—that is I suppose—we are here—we came——"
"Good, Teddy!" called someone encouragingly. "Say it over, we missed part of it."
"We are here——"
"Because we're here!" interpolated another tormentor.
"Oh, hang it all! We've met to discuss football!" cried the captain in desperation. "The athletic committee feels that something should be done—you all know how Blue Hill turned us down—we've got to play better. We now have two of the best coaches in the country, and they're going to have charge. I take pleasure in introducing to you Mr. Burke Martin of Yale, and Mr. Wilson Spencer of Princeton."
"Three cheers for both of 'em!" cried someone, and the big gymnasium reverberated with the shouts. Mr. Martin nodded to his colleague to speak first, and the Princeton coach arose.
"I am glad to see you all so enthusiastic," he began. "You know why the services of Mr. Martin and myself were secured, and I assure you that we will do our best to get your team into shape. To do this we may have to tell you some unpleasant truths, and some of you who imagine yourself good players may find that you cannot make the team—at least not at once. But I hope there will be no hard feelings. Now to begin with, I want to say something about training, as that is my specialty, and afterward Mr. Martin will give you a little talk about playing the game to win."
Thereupon the Princeton coach touched briefly on the more important points of the training system. It was soon evident to the Kentfield lads that they had not done enough of this in times past, and perhaps this was the cause of some of their defeats—at least they ascribed it to that.
"Football men, among other things, need quickness," said Mr. Spencer, "and beyond all else, according to Michael Murphy of Pennsylvania, than whom there is no better trainer, the players on the gridiron need to have plenty of superfluous energy to draw on. That is you need a sort of reserve stock to use at the time of a big match. Your mental condition is no less important than your physical. You mustwantto win, and you must feel that you aregoingto win.
"The care a player takes of himself in the summer determines in a great measure how soon he can get into condition in the fall."
"We had pretty good training on Dick's yacht," whispered Innis to Teddy.
"Now, I propose that we start at the beginning," went on the coach. "We'll have some setting-up exercises, some track work, and general gymnastics, and then we'll get in a position to pick the men for the Varsity by a series of try-outs." He made some special references to the details of training, and then yielded to Mr. Martin.
The latter went into the fine points of the game, emphasizing the needs of the individual players, laying stress on what the backs, tackles, ends and guards should do, and urging on the lads the necessity for fast, snappy playing.
"Demoralize your opponents by the quickness with which you jump into formations," said the Yale man. "As soon as one play is finished be ready for the next. In defense, never give up, no matter how the game seems to be going against you. Hold hard, tire out the other side, and then you may have a chance to get the ball and—win!"
He spoke at some length, and his remarks were eagerly listened to. Then Innis got up, and, after a trifling show of nervousness, and two or three false starts, which gave the cadets a chance to "rig" him, he said:
"I want to say that I'm sure none of us will feel any resentment if, after a fair trial, it is decided by the two new coaches that he isn't fit for the team," went on the stout lad. "I know my own failings and I'll be trying to get my weight down——"
"Don't eat so much," urged Jim Watkins, and there was a laugh, whereat Innis blushed.
"And I'm going to train hard," he concluded. "I guess that will be all this evening."
The meeting broke up, but the boys lingered to talk with each other, many surrounding the coaches, and asking all sorts of questions.
It had been arranged with Colonel Masterly that Mr. Martin and Mr. Spencer could occupy rooms in the Senior dormitory, and Dick, through the athletic committee, had provided for paying the bills.
Preliminary work of training started the next day, and though some of the boys thought it useless, they went through the exercises. But the two coaches were too wise to keep the cadets at mere gymnasium work too long, and so some field work with the ball, and some running exercises, were arranged.
Several candidates could not stand the pace and the grind and dropped out, but their places were eagerly taken by others. The scrub members were enthusiastic, and each one hoped to make the Varsity.
"Now we'll try a little practice game, between the first and second teams," proposed Mr. Martin, about a week after the arrival of himself and his colleague. "It will be in the nature of a try-out, for probably those who do the best work will be put in the first squad, and from that the men for the Varsity will be picked. That does not mean, however, that those who fail to make good this time will be barred. We will keep on the lookout for good material all the while."
"And I want you boys to feel that you are always being watched," added Mr. Spencer. "We'll have our eyes on you when you least expect it."
"That's what we want," declared Dick with a laugh. "We want the best team possible."
"Yes—Hamilton's team," sneered Porter to Weston.
"He'll be sure to make it, anyhow," added the latter.
"If he does, and I don't, I'll kick up a row," threatened the rich lad.
"So will I. Come on let's go to town and have a pool game. I'm pretty dry, too.
"Better not get caught with any of that bottled stuff," cautioned Porter.
"Don't worry. They will have to be pretty foxy to spot me, but I'm not going to be a temperance crank just because those coaches say so. Come ahead and we'll have some fun. It will be stiff enough work to-morrow."
The practice game was a hard one. Each player did his best, and on several occasions, after a hard scrimmage, time had to be taken out while some cadet had the wind pumped back into him, or a twisted ankle vigorously rubbed.
Slowly but surely the Varsity pushed back the luckless scrub. Slowly but surely a touchdown seemed about to be made. Dick gave a signal for a fake kick. John Stiver, the left half-back was to take the ball, run wide toward his own right end, pass the pigskin to Teddy Naylor, at full-back and the latter was to try and advance it for a touchdown.
All went well until Teddy got the ball. Then, as he was charging around the end, with Dick and Stiver forming interference for him, he dropped the ball. Something like a groan came from the young millionaire, for he saw their chance to score lost. Tom Coleton, of the scrub, came charging through, but the next instant Dick had made a grab for the pigskin, picked it up, and, dodging Coleton, made a dash toward the goal line.
The day was saved, for our hero, making a splendid run, planted the ball squarely between the posts, and behind the final chalk mark.
"Touchdown! Touchdown!" came the triumphant cry. "Varsity touchdown!"
"But it wouldn't have been one except for Hamilton," remarked Mr. Martin grimly. "Naylor, how did it happen that you couldn't hold the ball?"
"I don't know," answered the luckless captain.
"We can't have that," remarked Mr. Spencer with a dubious shake of his head. "Well, try for goal."
It was an easy shot, and Innis made it quickly. Then the game went on, but the Varsity could not score again, and the scrub was equally unable to advance the ball when they had it.
"That will be enough for to-day," announced the coaches. "We are going to make some changes to-morrow. The list of the first squad will be posted in the gym."
There were anxious looks among the players. Who would be on the preliminary Varsity team. It was a question every cadet asked himself.
"Well, if I don't make it," reflected Dick, "I will have so much more time to try and get on the trail of Mr. Duncaster. But—I want to play football."
"Come on, Dick!" cried Paul excitedly, as he burst into the room where his chum was industriously boning away over the pages of his trigonometry. "Hurry up!"
"What's the rush, son?" calmly asked the young millionaire.
"Haven't you heard? The list of the Varsity players has just been posted in the gym."
"Who told you?"
"Toots. He was whistling 'Just Before the Battle, Mother,' when I spotted him, and he sung out that the list was up. I want to see if my name is there."
"It sure is—you played your head off yesterday," declared Dick.
"That's no sure sign. I wish I had your chances."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dick. Yet, deep down in his heart he could not help feeling that perhaps, after all, he might be put on the scrub. He had played his best, but he had made some errors, and one fumble. Yet it would seem that his run and touchdown would count for much.
"Aren't you ever coming?" asked Paul. "Jove! I can't wait."
"Sure I'm coming," answered his roommate, as he tossed the book upon a heap of others. "No use getting excited though."
It was the day after the try-out game, and the coaches after a long and none too easy process of elimination had arrived at some definite results. They had made up a tentative Varsity team.
As Dick and Paul hurried across the campus toward the gymnasium, they saw many other students bent on the same errand as themselves, for the news had quickly spread, and each cadet who had football aspirations was anxious to see if he was one of the lucky eleven.
There was such a crowd about the bulletin board that for a time Dick and his chum could not get near it. They heard many names called out though, for the second team was posted as well as the first.
"There's Beeby—lucky dog—he's made it!" exclaimed someone.
"I thought he was too fat," came in disappointed tones from Roy Haskell, who coveted the centre rush's place.
"And Hall—he's on."
"Yes, and there's Dutton and Stiver, both on the first team."
"Say—look—Teddy hasn't made it!"
"Get out!"
"Sure not! Look, he's on the scrub."
"Poor Teddy. That's because of that fumble yesterday. Who's got his place?"
"I can't see. Oh, yes, it's Coleton!"
"Say, did you hear that?" asked Paul in a low voice of his chum.
"Yes, it's bad news. But Teddy will be on before we get through the season. He's a better all around player than Coleton. Can you get up there now?"
"I guess so. Come on. Say, let a fellow up, will you?" begged Paul of those about him.
As they were worming their way up they heard another piece of news.
"Porter is off," remarked one lad.
"I thought he'd be," came from Jim Watkins. "He made two bad fumbles yesterday, and he isn't quick enough for an end."
"Can you see, Dick?" asked Paul, as he clung to the side of his companion. "Is your name there."
"I don't know yet—Hey, Frank, get your head out of my way for a second; will you?"
"Sure thing, Dick. Tough about Teddy; isn't it?"
"Yes, but don't worry. We'll have him back."
"I hope so."
"Now can you see?" implored Paul.
"Yes, your name——"
Dick paused a moment.
"Well!" panted his roommate.
"Is there all right. You're on the Varsity."
"What position?"
"Left guard—where you wanted to play."
"But what about you, Dick?"
"Oh, I'm down at quarter all right," and from the calm way in which he said it those who heard him would never have imagined that Dick's heart had almost stopped beating when, for a brief moment, he thought he had caught sight of his name on the second list.
"Good, old man!" cried Paul fervently as he clasped his chum's hand. "I knew you'd make it. Now we'll see what sort of a team we'll have with the two changes. Are those the only ones made?"
"Yes, Porter and Naylor are off."
"Who's got Porter's place?"
"Hal Foster—a good fellow, too."
The throng surged about the bulletin board, newcomers arriving every minute, and all the cadets making various observations as they were pleased or disappointed. Teddy Naylor was not in sight. He had heard the news, and in the bitterness of his heart he kept to himself for a while.
Yet he did not complain. Teddy played the game fairly, and he was a loyal son of Kentfield. He was willing to defer to the judgment of the coaches—yet no one but himself knew how he longed to be among the first squad, and with a grim setting of his lips he resolved to make it before the big games were played.
"Well, come on," invited Paul to Dick. "I'll treat you to a soda on the strength of this."
"Don't you think it will put us out of training?"
"One can't. We've got to celebrate in some way."
The two chums strolled across the campus arm in arm, toward a spot where an enterprising dealer, well aware of the desire for sweets on the part of the students, had set up a little confectionery shop.
As Paul and his chum neared it they saw, walking toward them, Porter and Weston. The cronies were talking earnestly together.
"I wonder if Porter's heard?" ventured Paul.
"If he hasn't he soon will. I'm sorry for him. He's a brilliant player, but careless. He may come back before the season is over."
"He isn't much of an addition to the team—too snobby for me," spoke Paul in a low voice.
Porter suddenly seemed to become aware of Dick's presence, for Weston called his attention to it. Glancing up quickly, a black look passed over the features of the rich youth. Then striding ahead of his companion, he confronted our hero.
"Well, you've heard the news I suppose?" he snarled.
"About the announcements being made?" inquired Dick gently.
"No—about me being off the team."
"Yes, I'm sorry, but perhaps——"
"Oh, yes; you're sorry!" snapped Porter. "But I notice thatyourname is down all right."
"Yes," and Dick controlled himself by an effort, for the tone was insulting.
"We all know why you're on the Varsity. It isn't because of your star playing."
"I never claimed to be a star," was the calm answer, "but I probably played well enough to be picked."
"No, you didn't!" fairly shouted Porter. "You were picked because it is your money that's paying the salaries of the coaches and they were afraid if they didn't pick you that they'd lose their jobs. That's why you're on the Varsity, Dick Hamilton, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it!"
Porter, with a sneer on his puffed and red face, swung around angrily, and started off.
"Wait one minute, Mr. Porter," called Dick in a strangely quiet voice. "I want to say something to you."
"No, let me say it," begged Paul quickly, as Porter turned and faced them.
For a moment the four cadets—two on one side and two on the other—stared at each other. The face of Dick Hamilton was rather pale, but he held himself well in control. As for Paul, he had one hand on the shoulder of his chum, and had taken an eager step forward to confront Porter.
That bully regarded the two friends with a sneer on his face, and the countenance of Weston wore an amused smile.
"Well, I thought you were going to say something," half-snarled Porter. "If you are, put some steam on. We're in a hurry."
"You made an accusation just now," went on Paul, making a motion to Dick to keep silent.
"I did, and I think I can back it up. Why it's plain to everybody how the thing is worked. It's even known as Hamilton's football team, and no wonder he is picked to play on it."
"It isn't my team at all!" burst out the young millionaire.
"Well, you're paying for the coaches," put in Weston. "That's why they——"
"They don't know a thing about it!" cried Paul Drew. "That's what I want to say. From the beginning it was feared that something like this might crop up, and so Dick arranged to hand the money to the athletic committee, of which I happen to be a member. Our committee pays the salaries of the coaches, and also for their board, and the coaches themselves only know that much. They have no more idea that Dick is footing the bills than that an inhabitant of Mars is doing it, and if any one makes a statement to the contrary—well, we have a way of dealing with such persons at Kentfield," and Paul looked significantly at Porter and Weston.
"Does that satisfy you?" asked Dick quietly, as Paul paused. "I would have told you the same thing, but perhaps it is just as well to come from a member of the committee. I am only too glad to help out the team by hiring the coaches, but they don't know me from any other player, and I took my chances with all of you. If I had been turned down, as I half expected to be, it would have made no difference."
"Wait until you get turned down, and then you'll sing a different tune," remarked Porter bitterly, and Dick realized how he must feel.
"I'm sorry," said the young millionaire gently, "and if I had any influence at all you should be on the Varsity, for I think you are a good player."
"The coaches don't," and Porter laughed sarcastically.
"There's plenty of chance yet," went on Dick. "We are to have another practice game this week, and there may be a turn about in some players."
"I have a large sized gold framed picture of 'em naming me," exclaimed Porter with sarcasm. "But I take back what I said about your money getting you on. It did seem so, at first."
"Perhaps naturally," agreed Dick. "But your apology is accepted," and he held out his hand. "I hope we can be friends," he concluded.
"I guess so," mumbled Porter, with rather a shamed air.
"I presume Mr. Weston seconds what his friend says," spoke Paul significantly.
"Oh, yes," and it was with rather an obvious effort that the crony made reply. "Come on, Porter, or the best billiard tables will all be occupied."
"Well, I'm glad that's over," remarked Dick to Paul, as they turned away. "I was afraid this would crop up, and it's just as well to settle it. I only hope it does settle it, and that no other fellows will think as Porter and Weston did."
"Oh, some of them are bound to think it anyhow," said Paul easily. "Don't mind it, for it will wear away sooner or later. I'm afraid, though, that the team will be known as yours."
"I don't want that, Paul."
"Can't be helped, old man. After all it's a high honor. I wish I could afford a football team, and a steam yacht."
"Maybe you will some day. And, come to think of it I may not have a steam yacht much longer."
"Why, are you going to sell it?"
"No, but dad's finances are in a bad way, and may become worse."
"You don't mean to say he's lost all his money?" and Paul gave Dick a startled glance.
"Oh, we have enough to keep the wolf from howling under the parlor windows, and I don't expect to have to go to work in Uncle Ezra's woolen mill right away, but dad is involved in some trolley deal, and it's 'crimping' him, as he says. He's got most of his money tied up in it now, and some men, of whom Porter's father is one are trying to get the road away from dad."
"Does Porter know this?"
"He doesn't know it's my father whom his father is fighting, and I'd just as soon he wouldn't. But I've got to do something to help out, and one thing is to locate a Mr. Duncaster," and Dick told of his encounters with the eccentric man, and how he held a large block of stock in the trolley line.
"I'll help if I can," agreed Paul. Then they got their ice cream sodas, and strolled back to the academy.
That night Dick wrote his father a long letter, explaining about the football team, and also detailing his meetings with Mr. Duncaster.
"He lives in a place called Hardvale," wrote Dick, "and he seems to be as hard as the place is named. However, I'll try to see him, and get him to sell you the stock. You had better write me some specific instructions, and say how high I can go in bidding for it. If Mr. Porter, whose son is here at Kentfield, learns that Duncaster has the stock, he may have a try for it, so I'll have to go at it quietly. But I'll do my best."
Then, having done as much as he could in his father's business matters, our hero resumed his interrupted studies.
There was more football practice the next day, and the coaches now put the Varsity team through some rigorous work. The cadets were a little inclined to find fault at the strenuous tasks assigned to them, but the experts were exacting, and said that if Kentfield expected to be in the championship class she must work for it.
Meanwhile the scrub was being moulded into shape, for a good opponent is a necessary element in practice, and unless there is something to fight against practice goes for little.
And how eager that same scrub was to make touchdowns against the Varsity! How they did work, taking desperate chances all the while, and the individual players making names for themselves by brilliant dashes. For they all wanted to get on the first team, and they bore in mind what the coaches had said about giving them a chance if they did well.
"We certainly have our work cut out for us," remarked Dick, after a particularly gruelling day. "I'm as lame as a fellow who's tumbled downstairs."
"Same here," agreed Paul. "Some one walked all over me in that last scrimmage."
But the effect of the hard work was fast becoming noticeable, for the team was getting to be like "nails" as Mr. Martin said, and the players were working more in unison.
There was a practice game between the Varsity and scrub on Saturday, and it was the best one yet, from a critical football viewpoint. The coaches nodded their heads in approval when the first team made six touchdowns. And, though the scrub did manage to get a field goal, it was not to the discredit of the Varsity.
"We're picking up," declared Dick, as he ducked under a shower bath in the gymnasium. "We'll be able to challenge Blue Hill again, and they won't dare turn us down."
"I think we're going to try on some other team first," said Paul. "I heard the coaches talking about it. But say, who's going to be our captain—have you heard?"
"Not a word about it. Maybe it will fall on you, since Teddy is out."
"Jove! it would be an honor, but I don't hope for it. I'd like to see you fill that berth," went on Paul unselfishly.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dick. "I guess—blub—glub—ugh!" for he turned his head up and the shower from the spray filled his mouth and nose unexpectedly.
"Wow! That was a wet one!" he cried when he had caught his breath.
"Dutton would like to be captain, I hear," put in George Hall, who was in the next shower to Paul. "He says he's going to try for it."
"And he'd be a good one," declared Dick heartily, for he and his former enemy were now firm friends, though not exactly chums.
There were many speculations as to who would head the eleven, but the coaches had advised the cadets to wait until the Varsity team was definitely selected before holding an election, and this had been agreed to.
There came a long telegram for Dick late that Saturday night. It was from his father, and showed more plainly than anything else how anxious the financier was. For he did not wait to write a reply to Dick's letter, preferring the speed of the wire.
"See Duncaster by all means," read part of the message, "and offer him ten points above par for the stock—all he has. It's a big price, but it will soon be worth more. See him soon."
"I'll make a trip out there Monday," decided Dick. "Whew! Things are beginning to happen evidently."
With Paul for a companion our hero hired an auto and made the journey to Hardvale. Grit sat on the floor of the tonneau, with a contented look on his ugly but honest countenance.
"Grit may come in handy if Duncaster sets his dogs on us," remarked Dick with a grim smile, as they bowled along at good speed.
"Why, do you expect trouble?" asked Paul.
"Not exactly, but I imagine he hasn't much use for me. He didn't act very friendly the last time we met, and then the sight of the auto may make him angry, remembering how we ran him down. But it's too slow to take a horse. I hope we find him at home."
It was rather a lonesome part of the country through which they were traveling—a sparsely settled district that, somehow, reminded the young millionaire of the gloomy landscape at Dankville where his Uncle Ezra lived.
Mr. Duncaster was at home, a fact which a crabbed old housekeeper conveyed to the boys in no very cheerful voice.
"But I don't believe he'll see you," she added. "He's just woke up from his afternoon nap, and he's always a little riled then."
"Hum," mused our hero, "rather an unfavorable time to call, but it can't be helped. Will you tell him Dick Hamilton wants to see him?" he requested of the housekeeper.
"Oh, I s'pose so," and the woman went off grumbling, leaving the two lads standing on the doorstep.
"Polite," commented Paul with a short laugh.
The woman came back presently.
"He wants to know what you want," she said.
"I'd like to see him, and explain in person," said the young millionaire, "but will you tell him it is about the stock of the Midvale Electric Road he holds. I wish to purchase it for my father."
"Oh, you do; eh?" snarled a voice behind the housekeeper, and the wizzened and rather scowling face of Mr. Duncaster was thrust out. "So that's why you called on me, Dick Hamilton? I haven't forgotten you, as you'll note. Ha! There's another of the tin soldiers," he sneered as he caught sight of Paul. "If I had my way you'd all be breaking stone on the road, and you wouldn't have those soldier suits on, either," and he chuckled hoarsely. Clearly he was none the better for his nap.
"I called in reference to the Midvale stock," explained Dick, trying hard to keep down his anger and speak politely. "My father told me to offer you ten above par for it."
"Ten; eh?" and Mr. Duncaster chuckled. "Did he say you were to go higher in case I refused that offer?"
"No, he did not."
"Well then you can go back where you came from and tell your father that I won't sell."
"Do you mean for that price? Do you want more money? I can wire my father, and say——"
"You needn't say anything for me!" snapped the crabbed man. "I won't sell at that price, nor any other he can offer me. I've had a better offer than his, you can tell him, but I won't do business with him. Now get away from here! This isn't war time and I don't want a couple of tin soldiers on my front steps," and once more the old man chuckled at his insulting words.
Dick and Paul flushed, but made no retort.
"Won't you consider any offer at all from my father?" asked the young millionaire, wondering if the other bid for the stock had come from Mr. Porter. "I will send him a message, telling him you——"
"I told you that you needn't tell him anything from me!" snapped Mr. Duncaster. "I won't sell, and that's all there is to it! Now get out!" and he slammed shut the door.
For a moment Dick paused irresolutely on the steps. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he said:
"Turned down! Well I'll have to try some other way. It will be a disappointment for dad though."
As the two chums walked out of the yard the chauffeur came toward them with a small pail.
"What are you going to do?" asked Dick.
"Get some water for the radiator. It's almost out. I see a well over here."
He approached it to draw up the bucket, when a window was raised, and the head of Mr. Duncaster was thrust out.
"Here! Keep away from that well!" he cried. "You shan't have any of my water for your old rip-snorting contraption. I believe you are the fellow who ran into me the other night. Get away from there and water your machine somewhere else."
"Hum! You're a cheerful companion for yourself in your old age," remarked the chauffeur, as he turned back.
"What are you going to do?" asked Dick of the auto driver, as the three walked out of the yard of the mean man, watched all the way by the squinting eyes of Mr. Duncaster.
"Oh, I'll go to some place down the road where they're not so careful of their water," was the answer.
"Have you enough to run on?" asked Paul, and the chauffeur assured them that he had. The next resident was a cheerful farmer, who not only gave permission for them to take all the water they needed, but even drew it from the well for them.
"And if your machine needs a drink, perhaps you will too," said the farmer's wife. "I've just made some hot coffee, and I'd like you all to come in and have some."
"We will!" assented Dick, and most grateful was the beverage, for riding in the open car was chilly.
"What a difference in people," commented Paul, as they started off again.
The young millionaire felt almost as badly at sending the discouraging news to his father as Mr. Hamilton must have felt on receiving it. But he immediately wired back a cheerful telegram to his son.
"Don't worry," he advised, "we'll try some other way, and perhaps you may be able to get around Duncaster later. I'd come on and tackle him myself, but I can't spare the time."
Thereupon Dick began to devise ways and means of inducing the miserly and crabbed financier to part with the stock. He even thought of taking part of the money that was in his own right, and making an offer higher than the one authorized by his father, but he reflected since Mr. Hamilton had not told him to go more than ten points above par value, perhaps there might be a special reason for this.
"I might take a crowd of the fellows out to his house some night and haze him," ventured our hero.
"Let me go along if you do," begged Paul eagerly. "I'd like to get even with him for calling us tin soldiers."
"I'm afraid it can't be done," and Dick sighed. "I'll have to think of something else."
Football practice now occupied all the spare time the cadets had. Early and late they were on the gridiron, playing under the watchful eyes of the two coaches, who still found many faults to correct.
"No team is perfect," declared Mr. Spencer, "but we want Kentfield to be as nearly so as possible. You boys must do better on kicking though, for you may meet some team where you'll have to depend on your leg-and-foot-work to pull you out of a hole."
"And they're not quite as fast as I'd like to see them," added Mr. Martin. "They don't snap back into place quickly enough after each play. Now try it again. Get in the habit of running back into place instead of walking. Be lively!"
They lined up again, to run through some new plays and formations, and then were ready for the scrub, against whom they made such a good showing that both coaches warmly congratulated their charges.
"I wish poor Teddy was back on the Varsity," confided Dick to Paul, as they finished the day's practice. "He's feeling it very much, and he's falling off in form."
"Yes, I was afraid of that. I wonder if we couldn't do something?"
"I'm afraid not. Porter is playing well on the scrub though. He's much faster than he was in getting down on kicks, and he tackles fiercely. Did you ever have him come at you?"
"Indeed I have," answered Paul ruefully. "I've got a lump on my head yet where he threw me down last week. But that's the way to play the game."
"Sure. Say, don't you think it's rather queer not to have a captain?"
"Yes, and it's evident that Teddy isn't going to stand any show for it now. It will be some one of the present team, I fancy."
"Probably. Have you heard any rumors?"
"Well, George Hall would like it—in fact every fellow would, but Dutton is the hottest after it. He's pulling wires all he can—in a legitimate way, of course, and lots of the fellows like him."
"I don't blame him. Well, I'll vote for him, when the election is held."
"I won't!" declared Paul stoutly.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm going to vote for you, old man."
"Nonsense! I don't know as I want it."
"You deserve it, which is more. No one has done as much for the Kentfield eleven since the academy was started as you have this one season, and you ought to be captain. Then you couldn't kick when they called it Dick Hamilton's football team."
"Oh, get out!" cried the young millionaire, yet he was not displeased at his chum's sincere words. And what normal healthy lad would not want to be captain of an eleven?
There was much buzzing talk the next few days concerning the captaincy, and when the coaches announced that the present Varsity eleven would stand, at least for the present, and that in order to play match games a captain would be needed, the excitement grew apace.
"Nominations to-morrow night!" cried Paul one afternoon as he burst into the room he and Dick shared. "Dutton's name is sure to go up. I'm going to nominate you and I've got the promise of nearly enough votes to put you through."
"Look here!" began Dick, "I don't want——"
"It doesn't matter what you want!" cried Paul, clapping his chum on the back, and doing a sort of war dance around him, "you haven't anything to say in this matter. You just come to the meeting and see what happens."
It was a lively session, for several matters cropped up that needed to be settled. There was also a manager to be chosen, and, as Beeby did not want the place, preferring to spend more time in practice and training, it was practically decided to have some one not on the team to look after business ends.
Dan Hatfield was talked of for manager, and his name met with such instant favor that none other was considered. But when it came to the captaincy that was a different matter.
The little boom that started in favor of George Hall was so feeble that he himself saw that he had no chance, and nipped it. There was much talking and putting together of heads when Mr. Martin arose to announce that nominations for captain were in order, and that the names would be posted three days, and then voted on.
"I nominate Ray Dutton!" sung out John Stiver, who was the particular chum of the former.
It was quickly seconded, and then up jumped Paul Drew.
"I nominate Dick Hamilton!" he sung out.
"Second it!" came promptly from Dutton himself, a courtesy that Dick acknowledged with a bow.
The former rivals—now rivals again—faced each other with smiles, but there were anxious feelings in the hearts of both.
"Three cheers for the candidates!" cried Jim Watkins, and they were given heartily, with a tiger added.
"Any more nominations?" asked Mr. Martin.
"Well there's luck in odd numbers, I nominate Frank Rutley!" called out Porter with a laugh. "We might as well have a good choice while we're at it."
Weston seconded this name, and there were no comments. Thereupon the three names were posted on the bulletin board, and the meeting adjourned.
"Well, what do you think of it, Dick?" asked Paul, as they strolled back to their room.
"I'm glad I'm nominated, of course, but——"
"Well, but me no buts, what is it?"
"Dutton is very popular, and I can't help remembering how he was against me when I first came here. But I'll take my chance with him!"